The Struggle Against Reality
by GeorgeAndrews
Summary: Life goes on. It always has done. It always will do. But how does life go on, for those stuck in a moment? My response to Kates89 Season's Challenge. Will be 7 chapters. I will say what options I received at the end of the last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Swearwords used, including F-word.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

The drive had been long and arduous for Flack. He didn't mind the long waits in traffic, the numbing mindlessness of endless straight roads with never an end in sight; he could even withstand the repetitive tunes whirling round on the play cycle of the radio station. However what he really couldn't abide was the small, narrower roads once one had left the city; the claustrophobic space of tarmac only as wide as his car was suffocating. He'd thought they were the stuff of legend, the stuff of tales from foreign countries, oh how he'd had no idea that they now existed almost on his own doorstep.

_This place wasn't in his jurisdiction anyway..._

He twisted the steering wheel sharply as a small animal suddenly darted from a hedgerow and disappeared into the opposing greenery.

_Shit!_

He swore in his head as he slammed down the brake pedal and the car screeched to a halt in the middle of the track. The engine cut out immediately. Flack stared at his sweaty hands, shaking against the wheel they were gripped around.

_What's wrong with you? Get a grip._

He ordered himself in his head. A grip... that was funny. His hands couldn't have been gripping the wheel any tighter if he had tried. His eyes darted up to the mirror. His face was pale, beads of sweat ran down his forehead and yet he felt cold... he felt sick. He didn't want to do this, he couldn't be here... it was too much, all too much.

_This place wasn't in his jurisdiction anyway..._

"Shut up," he said aloud and then jumped, the sound of his own voice shocking him.

Suddenly he ripped his hands from the wheel and ran them through his damp hair, it stood on end as he brought them down and willed them to stop in their trembling. He closed his eyes and gulped in a few breaths. He was going to be late now; they'd all be waiting for him. A flash of something disturbed his vision and his eyes shot open. There was nothing there. Nothing except him, his car and the narrow road. Carefully he turned on the ignition, cursing himself for his stupidity as he did so, and started off down the road again.

_This land was all hers..._

He'd guessed as much a while back when he'd driven past two stone pillars set high on either side of the road, now covered in gorse and bracken. It had only been from that point onward that the roads had turned into a maze-like warren of single lane tracks. They had been created this way on purpose. Created to change the entire landscape into something it was not. Into a home.

Flack felt worse as he drove on. The very thought of this case making his skin ache, his lip sweaty, his vision bleary.

_It's too soon for this...you should go home._

Flack wondered if his companion might have a point. Was it too soon? And yet it was all in his own head. The countless times in recent memory he had argued with the tiny voice in his mind before swiftly ignoring it for the worse were too many. And once again he chose to ignore it as he drove on between two more high, stone pillars. All at once the hedgerow started to subside and after driving through huge, wrought iron, black gates he caught his first glimpse of the place he had come to visit.

_This was hers..._

Flack gazed out of the windscreen at the neatly kept lawn as he drove past it towards the edifice before him. The large, grey-stone manor was set back from the lawn, the gravel driveway leading right up to its front door. A few squadcars were parked out the front and a black Avalanche joined them, meaning the CSIs had beaten him there. He'd be in for some trouble now.

_Please be Stella..._

He couldn't bear to have Mac's piercing eyes bearing into him, judgement strewn across them when it was none of his damn business.

Flack reached the house and pulled his car to a rough halt. This place was big, much bigger than it had seemed during the time it had taken for him to drive from the gates to the front door. It's long, darkened windows bore down upon him like big, black eyes; hollow and empty as if they'd swallow him up. As he exited his car he noticed the sky was bright and yet there was no colour to it. It wasn't blue, neither grey and yet his eyes watered with the brightness of the day. He blinked and then turned his attention to the front door. A figure in a dark suit was coming down the steps towards him.

"Stella," Flack managed in greeting, adding a slight nod.

"You're late," she snapped.

"Traffic," Flack snorted, adding a pitiful sorry almost under his breath.

"Never mind," Stella replied curtly. "She's up here. I take it you've been informed."

"Fully briefed back at the station," he replied.

"Did you talk to the suspect?" she asked, cutting him a sidewards glance.

"They packed me off up here before I had the chance," Flack grunted.

"I see," she nodded.

She turned and walked back the way she'd come. Flack followed a few steps behind, the gravel crunching under his shoes. In the distance he heard an uproar of squawking and then a flock of birds took flight out of the trees near the lawn edge. It looked very much like they were attacking each other but he couldn't be sure. Normal birds didn't behave that way anyway. Flack shook his head and climbed the few steps towards the entrance.

The two detectives entered into the gloom and Flack found he couldn't help the audible gasp he let out as his eyes adjusted to the light of the hall. It was magnificent. The size alone was enough to make anyone turn green and Flack knew immediately that his own apartment would have fit inside four times over, if not more. A curved staircase led up from the middle of the room and large double doors were set into the walls on the right and left sides. A circular table with a vase of flowers was set in the centre of the room before the stairs, surviving despite the gloominess of this grand room. Ornate panelling covered the walls and a sparkling chandelier hung down from somewhere far above Flack's head.

"Different, isn't it?" Stella smirked at him.

Flack nodded, mouth still slightly agape. He had never seen a room like this in his entire life.

Suddenly a noise off to the left diverted his attention and he turned to see a rather tall man striding efficiently towards them.

"Detective, I did request for your officers to be tidy and respectful as they complete their investigation, but really, I simply cannot allow them to go through the Mistress' private desk," he ordered.

"I'm afraid that's exactly what they're going to search through," Stella snapped back irritably.

Flack eyed the man up and down as she continued to argue back with the stranger. He was slightly taller than Flack was himself and his black, shiny hair was neatly parted at the side. He seemed to be somewhere in his late forties with a large nose, bright white teeth and small eyes. When he paused in conversation his lips were a thin line and fell into almost a mean look on his face. He was smartly dressed, and although Flack had only seen them in the movies, he guessed this man was the butler. If anything his English accent gave him away.

"I am in charge of this house here whilst the Master and Mistress are away...are...I mean..."

The man stumbled over his words, coughed and then looked slightly awkward.

"Your name?" Flack said gruffly, taking advantage of the pause.

"Pardon me?" the man turned to look at Flack, taking him in with a long stare.

"I said, you name?" Flack repeated as he took out his notebook and pen.

"Edward. Edward Plenty. I am Butler here and incharge of the..."

"Yeah, I heard," Flack interrupted bluntly.

Plenty sneered at him with distaste.

"I'll be needing to talk to you after I've seen the crimescene, Mr Plenty. Don't go anywhere," Flack ordered as he turned back to Stella for her to show him the way.

"As if I would leave my post during such a time," came the cold reply and then Plenty turned and strode away in the direction he had appeared from.

"Touchy," snarked Flack after him.

"It's upstairs," Stella remarked, turning the subject back to business as she started up the stairs.

Flack nodded to himself and then followed on behind her. He guessed she was still pissed at him for being late. He couldn't blame her, it was bad practice for him to turn up after the CSI's had started processing. But it was true, the traffic out of the city had been bad, and the journey a last minute order from upstairs. Flack found himself lost in thought as they journeyed up to the first floor. Something about this case didn't sit right with him.

It had all started when a call had come in from a jogger going for an early morning run in his local park. A man had been found sitting quietly by the lakeside, the morning sun glowing on his face. He was calm, almost sedate in expression, numbed by whatever horror had occurred in the hours leading up to that time. His thin cotton shirt blew gently in the breeze, as did his golden blond hair and he appeared to be barefoot, dew sodden grass clinging to his soles. In his left hand he held a revolver, a very old fashioned kind, but it hadn't been that which had drawn the attention of the jogger. The man's hands and shirt had been covered in sticky, red blood.

He'd been brought to Flack's precinct for questioning and that was when his Captain had told him. The man was Antony Strange, the multi millionaire and all American charmer. Flack recalled staring at him through the interrogation room window. He was young, and incredibly handsome with his boyish good looks and floppy hair. His reputation preceded him though and Flack knew from the papers that Antony Strange was more famed for his Lothario-like antics than anything else he'd ever achieved in his life. The curious thing was that he'd married only a few years back. The young and beautiful English heiress and aristocrat, Margaret Rosterick had become the envy of every girl in the world when she'd married Antony Strange.

'The woman who would tame the wild beast' they'd called her in the magazines, even though she'd only been nineteen at the time. Flack grimaced at that fact. Pushed into it by the parents, he'd thought. After the wedding they'd travelled the world together, snapshots of them appearing on every news site in the world. Margo had become a fashion icon, women flocking in their millions to buy or recreate her image, the press obsessed with her beauty. For she really was beautiful, a slight creature with an ethereal like quality to her aura. She gave the impression of being fragile and yet whether she was, the world did not know. She was a great lover of nature and of animals, another quality that made the world fall in love Margo Rosterick.

The couple had eventually settled in England, somewhere near the south coast, and for a while it seemed things had worked out. However, everything changed when, within a few months, Strange had dragged his young wife across the sea to America, a place she'd immediately felt homesick in. So Strange had devised a plan, had created this quintessential English Manor for her to live in, added the winding country roads and butler, everything to try and make her happy. But it wasn't enough. She eventually became a recluse, hiding from the limelight and never being seen in public. Strange was another matter though, he continued on with his pre-marital lifestyle of lavish parties and dinners without his wife. In the end Margo was forgotten and quickly replaced with a new icon for the women to fawn over, and no-one ever asked, 'Whatever happened to Margo Rosterick?'

"Flack, you with me?"

Flack jumped as Stella's sharp voice cut into his thoughts.

"Yeh," he replied gruffly.

He noted his hands had started to shake again.

"It's just down here," Stella directed as she turned left down the landing.

Flack clenched his fists tightly and trailed along behind her. Passing a mirror he noticed his hair was still on end and quickly released his hands to pat it down. He looked considerably worse than when he'd left the precinct a few hours ago, but then again, he'd had that long drive to mull over the details of the case. Officers had driven to the home of Antony Strange as soon as he'd been taken into custody and it was they who had found the gruesome discovery that had led to Flack being ordered out to the house. And the more Flack had thought about it on the drive, the worse he'd felt.

"How bad is it?" Flack suddenly asked as he followed Stella along a wide landing.

_Wider than the bloody roads._

"They're all bad," Stella replied over her shoulder.

Flack shivered and grimaced. Somewhere deep inside him he understood why this case was affecting him so badly, even if he didn't want to admit it. He paused briefly, taking a deep breath and then willed his hands to stop moving. It seemed that his brain wasn't connecting to his extremities that day. He looked up to see Stella pausing outside a room. This was it. In a moment he was expected to go through the door and see... and see God knows what. He swallowed, his throat was dry and it was a painful action. He couldn't do this. It was too much. That poor girl. He'd remembered Sam showing him pictures of the wedding, it had been all anyone – the magazines – all they'd talked about for weeks. That had been three years ago... Margo Rosterick was now only twenty-two...barely an adult... Flack swallowed again and cursed himself for doing so. The girl was still a child really. Snatched from her family and brought to a place she never wanted to live with an absent husband who favoured drinking and drugs over marital duty.

"Flack, are you coming?" Stella asked impatiently.

_Fuck._

Flack knew he was shaking as he approached the door, knew Stella was watching him, noticing his trembling. Was she aware it was fear? He didn't know. Carefully, and breathing loudly, he stepped over the threshold into the room before him. Into the room where the body of Margo Rosterick lay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sunlight beamed into Flack's face as he stepped into the bedroom and for a moment all he could see was white. His body temperature briefly soared as the rays bathed him in their warmth and glow. Then it was all over, as quickly as it had come when he stepped further into the private bedroom of Margo Rosterick. All at once the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was a stillness about this room. Nothing moved; it was as though this room had been frozen in time, kept unchanged for years and years. He half expected a thick layer of dust to be covering the furniture but there wasn't. In fact everything was brilliantly clean, dazzlingly so in the bright sunlight that filled the room. An overpowering scented, perfumed smell filled his nostrils as he gulped in the static air that existed in the stillness. Small specks of dust, though Flack was now almost surprised to see any at all, danced in the rays as they shone down through the great glass windows that led out onto a balcony. Flack could see a small table and chair out there and an abundance of colourful flowers in various decorative stone planters.

He turned his attention back to the inside of the room. Thick velvet curtains hung down in their masses either side of the windows from high above his head. An elegant dressing table stood off to one side with an ornate gold-framed mirror resting over it. Each item on top of the glass surface was neatly placed and parallel to one another; brush, comb, powder, various other crèmes and lotions that Flack failed to recognise. He wondered if Margo Rosterick had ever even used these things, they looked so very untouched. A settee and two matching armchairs sat in front of a small fireplace, their material matching the thick curtains, and a lurid floral rug lay on the floor between them. Small floral cushions of the same pattern were placed carefully on the settee and for a while Flack simply gazed at his surroundings. Pink. Everything was so brilliantly, powder-puff pale pink. The curtains, chairs, floral rug... even the flowers on the balcony were various shades of pink. It was the most traditional of ladies bedrooms that Flack had ever seen, as if he had stepped back a century on passing through the doorway to this room. Or was it that Margo Rosterick had simply never grown up? Flack wasn't sure, but the colour together with that thought encouraged a sick feeling to start growing in his belly.

Finally he fixed his gaze on what he had come there to see. A grand four poster bed dominated the space of the large room. Reams of chiffon-like material fell down from the top of it and wafted gently back and forth despite the lack of any kind of breeze in the room. A golden bedspread covered the bed over crisp, clean pink sheets and it was there Flack got his first glimpse of her. His breath caught in his throat and he froze in his step. She was beautiful. He blinked. He knew in his heart he had never seen such a stunning woman, and what was more, she was peaceful. She lay perfectly set in the bed, her long golden hair running symmetrically down either side of her head to cover the sheets. He could just see the silk of a pink negligee that she must be wearing under the covers. Her eyes were closed and a faint smile tinged her lips. Her skin was pale, smooth but almost waxy, as if she were really a mannequin rather than a corpse. In fact, she didn't look like a corpse at all, she looked like a strange and heavenly creature that was simply sleeping in her bed and at any moment would wake and cry out for Flack's presence in her room.

_That won't happen. She's dead._

Flack was brought back to reality by that mean and tiny voice inside his head. He coughed, suddenly remembering he hadn't taken a breath in a while and all at once his lungs were filled with the overpowering perfumed scent again and he choked. He clasped a hand to his mouth, afraid the sick feeling in his belly was more than a feeling, but it wasn't. He fixed his eyes on the ethereal young woman before him again.

_Still dead._

Her arms rested just atop of the covers and he could see there was no ring worn on her wedding finger. He frowned. Why wouldn't she be wearing her wedding ring? Had her marriage really broken down that badly, or was that just rumours spread by the magazines to sell numbers? His detective's eyes quickly scanned over her nightstand but no ring was to be found there. He was just about to step forward to pull open the draws when a noise from behind stopped him and he jumped.

"Ah there you are I... Oh sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Flack turned to look into the concerned face of Sid.

"Sid," he nodded, trying to hide the fact his heart was still jumping wildly inside his chest.

"Flack," Sid returned. "Stella told me to let you know she went to call Mac. She'll join us in a minute."

"Right," Flack nodded, composing himself and bringing out his notepad and pen once more.

"You alright?" Sid frowned, still stopped halfway between the doorway and where Flack stood at the end of the bed.

"Fine," Flack sighed somewhat irritably.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sid said, half grinning at the thought. He didn't wait for Flack's reply but bustled past him over to the side of the bed.

"Or maybe just a dead body," he chuckled as he looked down at the figure lying on the bed.

Flack didn't reply but pursed his lips. When would they all realise he was fine and stop bothering him with their suffocating looks of pity and boring repetitive questions.

_But you're not._

"I once saw a ghost, you know?" Sid was saying as Flack ignored his own thoughts in favour of Sid's definitely more interesting ones.

"Huh?"

"Yes, it was back in ninety-three I think... no, no it must have been ninety-two," Sid nodded.

"Where were you?" Flack asked.

"I was staying with family out in the country. We'd hired a cabin and gone up for the week. It was a rather wild and isolated place," Sid replied, his eyes starting to glaze over.

"Ugh," Flack grunted in response, finding the whole idea of cabins in the country unappealing.

"Yes, I woke up one night and decided to go for a stroll down to the nearby lake. I remember coming out of the trees to see a figure standing by the lake. The moon was very bright that night and I could see her quite clearly," Sid nodded.

"Who was she?" Flack asked in interest.

"Well that is just the question. I thought it was my dear old mother, standing there in her night gown. She looked the spitting image," Sid sighed fondly.

"What did you do?"

"I froze," Sid said rather dramatically. "My mother had passed away a good ten years before that so it was impossible for it to be her."

"Unless it was her ghost," Flack nodded as he logically reasoned along with Sid.

"Exactly. Trouble was I didn't really get along with my old mother so I ran back to the cabin and went straight back to bed after a good few glasses of the strong stuff," Sid grinned.

"But you did see the ghost of your mother?" Flack encouraged.

"Well," Sid smiled as his eyes refocused on Flack. "Not really. I mean, I thought I had but the next day when I mentioned it to the rest of the family, it turned out my sister had taken a midnight stroll down to the lake as well that night."

Flack felt his heart sink at Sid's words.

"So it was your sister you saw?" he murmured.

"Yes. And believe you me when I say she wasn't happy to be confused with our mother. Did I get it in the neck for that one," Sid chuckled.

"I bet," Flack half-heartedly responded.

Sid scratched at his head and then turned to don a pair of white gloves.

Flack paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, and then said, "So you don't believe in ghosts then?"

Sid looked up, a small frown on his face, clearly mulling over the question.

"That, I'm afraid," he replied, "Is the unanswerable question. What happens to us when we die?"

"What do you think?"Flack asked.

"There are too many possibilities," Sid mused. "But having spent the majority of my life around death and the dead, I can say one thing for sure; no life ever remains with the body."

"So you don't believe then," Flack answered.

"I didn't say that," Sid answered back. "The human spirit gets far too attached to this beautiful planet that we inhabit. Mankind has created every luxury that we could possibly think of. Therefore what would posses anyone to leave?"

"So you do?" Flack frowned, puzzled by his colleague's cryptic answer.

"I didn't say that either," Sid replied. "My answer is I don't know."

"Oh," Flack said, somewhat disappointed.

There was a pause in the room and a silence disturbed only by the sound of Sid snapping on his gloves.

"However I hope," the doctor suddenly said, and glanced meaningfully at Flack as he spoke.

Flack stared back at him, feeling that he should know what Sid was trying to say, knowing that in his heart he did understand his colleague's words, accepting in his head that the M.E was wrong, that he couldn't possibly know a thing about how Flack was feeling.

"Anyway, back to the business at hand," Sid said, nodding to the body before him.

"Yes," Flack coughed, looking back again at Margo Rosterick.

He once again found his breath catching in his throat as he stared at her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about her. It was as if she hadn't ever really belonged to this world, such a beautiful and different creature she was. That she had now returned to some other place from whence she came, hence the small smile on her lips.

"Cause of death?" Flack muttered, his professionalism overriding any other feeling that might have been flowing through his body.

"Ah," Sid replied as he gently touched his fingers to her head and tilted it to one side, brushing her hair out of the way as he did so.

Flack stared in horror as the fatal wound was finally revealed to him. The side of her head was stained with a trickle of blood emanating from a small hole in her temple.

"Gunshot," Flack choked softly as he scribbled it down. The nauseous feeling inside him was growing. How could anyone have shot such an innocent young woman? Especially when she lay unaware and sleeping in her bed.

"Indeed. At least it was quick, she probably never felt a thing," Sid replied as he examined the wound.

"Her husband Antony Strange was found with a revolver this morning," Flack worked out, anger briefly flickering through him.

"A revolver didn't do this," Sid said, subconsciously shaking his head. "No, a revolver would have caused much more damage. It was a very small gun that caused this wound."

"I'll inform the boys to search the house for a weapon of that sort," Flack nodded. "And I'll check with first on scene."

"I've not seen a gun in this room," Sid replied helpfully. "At least, not on view anyway."

"Either way it's been removed by somebody after the event," Flack growled.

"Stella mentioned that it was actually the butler who discovered the body, before the police officers arrived up here," Sid informed him.

Flack made a mental note to ask Plenty if he'd removed anything from the room at all, and also to question him closely about his whereabouts and actions leading up to and after his discovery of the body.

"It seems so sad, a pretty young thing like this," Sid sighed, pulling the sheets back so he could examine the rest of the body.

"Hmm," Flack agreed as he watched Sid at work. It seemed almost sacrilege to even touch the body, let alone move her.

"She was the world's sweetheart," Sid continued sadly.

Flack silently agreed wondering how it had all ended up like this for the poor girl. He hadn't spoken to Antony Strange himself and yet he found himself already hating the man. He had caused her life to be full of misery, for her to be separated from the rest of the world and left in the huge mansion, away from family and friends to live alone. What man could ever do that to the woman he loved? Flack clenched his notepad hard in his hand. How he hated Antony Strange.

_But you're just like him, aren't you?_

Flack froze, a shiver running down his spine as his tiny voiced companion started up in his head again.

_You didn't look after the woman you loved either._

A tear suddenly burnt in the corner of his eye as he was sucked into his own little world of thoughts and emotions.

_Now they're both dead._

Flack's breathing got audibly louder and he suddenly noticed that Sid was no longer looking at the body but was staring at him.

"Time of death?" Flack stammered, hands shaking once more.

"Sometime last night. Approximately between midnight and two am," Sid replied, never blinking once as he stared at Flack.

"Good," Flack nodded, ignoring the fiery racing of emotions through his body. It burnt him and he felt slightly faint. It was getting hot in the room and he needed to get out.

"Are you alright, Flack?" Sid asked, now looking rather more alarmed than concerned.

"Fine. I just need some air. It's so hot in here, isn't it? I just..." Flack stammered, pushing his notepad and pen roughly into his pocket.

He coughed and pulled at his shirt collar which was loose anyway. He stared at the corpse in the bed, the sleeping angel that didn't belong there. He gulped in the sickly-sweet perfumed air that made him nauseous. He stomach turned and once again Flack clasped a hand over his mouth, afraid he might vomit.

"I just... I need to get out of here," he choked from behind his hand.

And so it was that for the first time in his life, Detective Flack ran from a crimescene.


End file.
